The Best American Mystery Stories 2000

Doug Allyn Miracles! Happen!

From Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

A neon sign on the mansion’s sprawling lawn said: Miracles! Happen! I paused a moment, considering the idea. And my fingertips strayed unconsciously to the scars on my face.

Miracles? Not likely. The way my luck usually runs, I get warm and fuzzy when I catch an even break.

The guy who owned the estate knew a bit about miracles, though. Evan Grace Ministries. Radio, TV, national politics. Not bad for a preacher who’d been touring with tent-show revivals twenty years ago. A lifetime ago.

No tents for Evan nowadays. His Grosse Pointe palace sprawls across three waterfront lots on Lake St. Clair, a Victorian manor with a stable, a six-car garage, and a state-of-the-art broadcast studio. Evan can preach a sermon in the morning, take his fat-cat contributors out to lunch, and still sleep in his own bed.

With a friend of mine.

So perhaps Miracles do Happen. Sometimes. Not very often.

A black funeral wreath was hanging on the front door. I rang the bell beside it. Chimes played the first two bars of “Amazing Grace.”

A linebacker opened the door — six foot four, crew cut, a two-hundred-fifty-pound hardbody in a perfectly tailored blue suit. Armani, from the look of it. A black armband around the bicep.

I was wearing a black canvas duster, jeans, and a face that had been seriously rearranged by a patch of concrete.

“Yes?”

“Hi. I’m here to see Mrs. Grace. My name’s Axton.”

“I’m sorry, there’s been a death in the family. They aren’t seeing visitors.”

“I’m not visiting. Mrs. Grace asked me to come by.”

The linebacker looked me over doubtfully. “Under the circumstances, another day would be better. If you call—”

“She called me two hours ago, sport. If she’s changed her mind, fine. But why don’t you check first? Please.”

Another man, equally large, materialized at my shoulder. “A problem here, Mr. Klein?”

“Not yet,” the suit in the doorway said. “Keep our friend here company, Jack. Because if you’re a tab reporter, we’re gonna haul you out back and show you the error of your ways. Sport.”

He closed the door in my face. I glanced sidelong at the new arrival. Also crew-cut, but darker, Hispanic maybe, and his suit was strictly Sears, off the rack. He was wearing a miniature earpiece with a small curly cord that vanished beneath his collar. A professional security type, not just a college boy borrowed for the day.

“What’s with the wreath?” I asked.

“Maybe it’s for you,” Jack said. He wasn’t smiling. The door opened again.

“It’s okay, Jack,” Klein said. “Sorry about the mix-up, Mr. Axton. It’s a bad day for all of us. Follow me, please.”

I trailed him down a long entrance corridor into the living room, past a dozen people dressed in black or wearing armbands, clustered in small groups, voices subdued. A few glanced up curiously. I clearly didn’t belong here today. But no one said anything.

Klein led me down a second corridor, rapped once on an ornate oak door, and showed me inside. A comfortable library, floor to ceiling bookshelves, leather chairs, a fire glowing in the grate. Krystal Grace, nee Doyle, was staring into the flames, lost in thought.

Her blond hair was shorter now, worn up in a bouffant. Understatedly elegant. As was her unadorned black dress. It had been nearly ten years. It could have been ten minutes.

“Hey, Ax,” she said to the fire, not turning. She was holding a brandy snifter, swirling it slowly.

“Hey, Krystal. How have you been?”

She glanced up and realized Klein was standing just inside the door. “You can leave us, Jerry.”

“Mr. Grace asked me to—”

“Get the hell out!”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hesitated in the doorway, memorizing my face, then vanished.

“Sorry about that,” she said.

“Krys, what’s up? Is this some kind of a wake or what?”

She turned back to the fire, shadows playing on her face. “Don’t you watch TV? It’s been all over the news.”

“I’ve been in Cincinnati. Just got back last night.”

“The wake’s for... my son Joshua, Ax. He died yesterday.”

“God. I’m sorry, Krystal. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like it came as a big surprise. He’s been dying since the day he was born. Almost two years ago. Sandhoff’s disease. The doctors told us he’d be lucky to last three months. He was a lot tougher than they thought. Miracles happen. Or so they say.” She look a serious draught of brandy, showing perfect teeth at the bite of it. “Oops, I’m being rude. Would you like a drink? Bourbon was your thing, right?”

“Thanks, no, I’m okay.” But Krystal wasn’t. She was flushed and bleary. Half bagged.

Her eyes caught mine. Then she peered at me more intently, blinking. “Good God. What happened to your face, Ax?”

“Motorcycle accident.”

“Damn. It looks like it hurt.” She said it deadpan, but with a glint of the old mischief I remembered so well. And then she was in my arms and we clung together a moment. Not passionately. Desperately. Like sparrows in a tornado.

For a guilty moment I savored her embrace, the scent of her hair. But the perfume was different. A lot more expensive. And it had been ten years. And we weren’t scuffling kids trying to get ahead in the music business anymore.

“Thanks, I needed that,” she said, stepping back. “Don’t worry, I won’t fall apart on you.”

“Fall all you want. You’re entitled.”

“No, I’m not.” She frowned down at the brandy snifter. “That’s the thing. I don’t have the right to cry. I earned every bit of this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sandhoff’s disease. Do you know anything about it?”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s hereditary. Evan and I both have the gene. It’s recessive, doesn’t affect us, but the odds are three to one that any kids we have will be born with the dysfunction. Three to one. I can’t watch any more babies die, Ax. That’s why I called you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I heard you were working as a private investigator now.”

“Sort of. I’m no Sherlock Holmes. Mostly I run down deadbeats and collect bad debts. Why?”

“I had another child once,” she said simply. “I want you to find her for me.”

“What child?”

“When I first met you, what, ten years ago? I was singing backup for Bobby Penn and the Badmen. Remember them?”

“Sure. I was managing the Roostertail when you played there. Thought you were one of the best damn singers I ever heard.”

“Get real. I was strictly minor league.”

“Wrong. When you sang alone the room always went quiet. People listened to you. It’s a special talent, Krys.”

“Maybe” — she shrugged — “but Bobby was the star and didn’t let anyone forget it. I was living with him then. And I got pregnant. So I stayed behind when Bobby and the guys went on a Canadian tour. And I had a baby girl. I named her Cher.” She took another long sip of brandy.

“A booking agent called, needed a backup singer for a gospel roadshow. The Evan Grace Ministry. I was flat broke so I left the kid with my landlady and took the gig. And it was... a revelation. Playing big churches and stadiums instead of rock joints. Everybody clean and sober. Listening to Evan preach every night, spreading the Word. It was so different from the life I was in. And I wanted it. And I wanted Evan too.”

“Looks like things worked out. Some miracles must happen.”

“But they come at a price. I... didn’t tell Evan about my daughter. The people around him are pretty uptight. I figured if they knew I had a love child with a rock ’n’ roller they’d stone me or something. So I kept putting off telling him. And then he asked me to marry him and it was too late to tell him. Afraid I’d lose him. And all this,” she added, with a wave of her hand.

“What about Bobby?”

“When he came back from Canada he was drugging so heavy I doubt he noticed I was gone. Until I married Evan and it made the news. And then he came around one night, wrecked. He had a picture of the baby, wanted money. For our kid, he said. I gave him all I had. A few hundred. Evan handles the money in the family. Bobby wanted more and we argued. I was angry about being held up, but mostly just angry with myself. And I’d been drinking. Always did have a problem with booze. Evan’s security people threw Bobby out. I expected to hear from him again. But I never did. It’s been nearly eight years.”

“I see. Any idea where he is now?”

“No. I don’t see anybody from the old days anymore. I thought you might know. You’re still in the business, right?”

“I do some security work for promoters and road bands so I know a few people. But I haven’t heard anything about Bobby or the Badmen for years. He was Canadian, right?”

“Yeah, and that’s about all I knew about him. Except that he was a hunk. He was an orphan, or said he was. He told me once that artists can’t be limited to the truth. I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. But he was a wonderful liar. Very... creative.”

“So you don’t know doodley about his background and the little you know might not be true?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Terrific.” I mulled that over. “Didn’t Bobby and the Badmen cut a record once?”

“They had two local hits in the seventies before I joined them. Nothing big.”

“Do you remember which label?”

“Something southern, I think. Raleigh?”

“Okay, that’s a place to start. Can you think of anyone else who might know where he is?”

“Beans, maybe.”

“Beans?”

“Fat guy, long black ponytail? Beans was the band’s road manager and sound man. He and Bobby went way back.”

“Yeah, I vaguely remember him. What was his real name?”

“God, I don’t know. He was just... Beans. That’s what everybody called him. I don’t know if I ever knew his real name. You know how it was in those days.”

“Pretty much the same as it is now. I’ll be honest with you, Krys. Even if I can turn Bobby up, and that’s not a gimme, your claim to the baby might be pretty shaky after all this time.”

“Don’t worry, I can handle Bobby. You sleep with a guy awhile, you get a pretty good idea what he’s about. Bobby was beautiful and he could sing like a bird, but down deep...”

“What?”

“That’s just it. There wasn’t anything down deep. No soul. Maybe he traded it for his looks, I don’t know. You’ve got to find my daughter for me, Ax. Please. I know I screwed up, but I can make it up to her. I have to. I can’t go on like this.”

That much was true. If I’ve ever seen anyone on the lip of the abyss it was Krystal Grace. I didn’t know if finding her lost child would help. What she really needed was rest and counseling and support. Or maybe a Miracle! from the sign out front.

But considering my shambles of a life, I’m the last person who can offer advice. Especially to an old friend in a world of hurt. So I kept my mouth shut and set out to do my job.

I didn’t get very far. Klein, the linebacker, met me in the hallway and said Mr. Grace wanted to see me before I left. He didn’t bother to say please.

We took an elevator down to the broadcast studio in the basement. I’d seen Evan Grace’s gospel broadcasts a time or two, usually at 3 A.M. on Christian stations. He’s a terrific talker with a good band who can bring a crowd to its feet. Or its knees. Or so I’d thought.

The cameras and equipment on the soundstage were top of the line, the latest and best from Sennheiser, Bose, and AKG. But there was no seating area for an audience in the room. The front of the stage faced a wide blue screen. Interesting.

Evan Grace’s inner office was the size of my apartment: thick carpeting, leather chairs, walls covered with gold-framed, autographed photographs. Evan posing with Nixon, with Pat Robertson, Tipper Gore.

The man himself was sitting at an antique desk, his face buried in his hands. He glanced up when we came in.

He was in shirtsleeves and looked haggard. His usually flawless silver pompadour was mussed, hanging in his eyes. Even so, he was magnetic. Charisma, stage presence, whatever you call it, Evan Grace had it. Bobby Penn had it too, as I recalled.

He eyed me a moment in silence, sizing me up. “What does the other guy look like?” he asked.

I smiled. At least he was direct. “The other guy was Eight Mile Road. Motorcycle accident.”

“Very impressive. I imagine it helps you in your work.”

“My work?”

“Intimidation is part of your line, isn’t it? When Krystal said she wanted to hire you, I had you checked out, Mr. Axton. You have an investigator’s license and a concealed-weapons permit. You do collection work for nightclubs and booking agencies, and occasionally hire out as a bodyguard. People you’ve worked for say you’re honest and tenacious to a fault. And a little crazy.”

“Sounds fair. So?”

“I’ll be blunt. My wife is in no condition emotionally to make decisions that could affect her entire life. And mine. I’ll be happy to reimburse you for your time and trouble, but we won’t be requiring your services.”

“Sorry, but it doesn’t work that way.”

“She can’t pay you, Axton. I control the purse strings and I guarantee you’ll never see a dime.”

“Actually, Krystal and I never got around to discussing a fee, so I guess this one’s on the house. Call it Christian charity.”

“Are you mocking my beliefs, Mr. Axton?”

“Not at all. I have a question, though. That blue screen facing the broadcast dais? How do you morph the audiences in?”

He eyed me a moment, then shrugged. “We film the crowds when I speak at churches and halls. The congregations you see on television are mine, they just don’t happen to be in the studio at broadcast time. A miracle of the electronic sort. Why?”

“Just wondered. Look, Reverend, I know this is a tough time for you and I sympathize, but Krystal asked me to do this thing, I agreed, and that’s it. And right now she’s alone and half plastered. You should be talking to her, not me.”

“You intend to press on with this? Over my objections? Are you a Christian, Mr. Axton?”

“Probably not by your standards, no.”

“I’m not surprised. I imagine genuine Christian values could be a drawback in your line.”

“Actually, I think my line and yours are both a lot like making sausage, Reverend. The less people know about how we do it, the better off they are. Tell Krystal I’ll be in touch.”

Halfway between floors, Klein hit the elevator stop button and turned to face me.

“You shouldn’t have talked to Reverend Grace like that.”

“Like what?”

“Disrespectfully. When a man like him asks you to do something, you do it.”

“If I was working for him, I probably would. But I’m not.”

“Then I’ll make it simple. When you say no to Reverend Grace, you’re saying no to me. Your face has already been rearranged once. I could do it again.”

“Maybe. But not in this elevator.”

“Why not?”

“Because people are in mourning upstairs, Jerry. I doubt your boss would appreciate a dustup in the middle of it. No matter who

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Hell, you don’t look like you’re afraid of anything. Which makes me think you’ve led a pretty quiet life. Up to now. So? You wanna take your best shot? Or restart the elevator?”

“Maybe this isn’t the time or the place, Axton. But your time’s coming.”

“I hope so. I’d hate to think it was past.”

Krystal was half right. Raleigh Records was southern. Southern Michigan. South of Detroit, in Ecorse, to be exact. A rundown studio in a block of dilapidated warehouses off West Jefferson. Raleigh Productions: Rollie Newcomb, president, chief financial officer, salesman, packing clerk, secretary, janitor. Whatever. Strictly a scuffler.

I found Rollie working the phone in his second-floor office, trying to peddle the crates of CDs, tapes, and old LPs stacked in the open bay beyond. In the fifties and sixties, Rollie cut sides with Jackie Wilson, Mitch Ryder, and other Motown hometown heroes. A few hit it big later on, but not Rollie. He was stuck in Ecorse, selling second-rate recordings by stars who were nobodies at the time, or nobodies who stayed that way. Like...

“Bobby Penn and the Badmen?” Rollie said, eyeing me warily. Rollie’s fat, sixty, and still wears polyester leisure suits. And not because he’s into retro styles. “Is business so bad you’re down to working for the Badmen these days, Ax?”

“I thought they were defunct.”

“Went belly-up years ago. But sometimes a member of a group tries to use the name. If you’re looking for their royalties, you’re out of luck. Penn made all the contracts in his name only. The Badmen weren’t even named individually on the album jacket, which was just as well since he bagged two of ’em in the middle of the session. Bobby hired and fired people so fast if you lined all the former Badmen up they’d look like the Million Man March. Bobby’s got some dough coming, though. He hire you?”

“No. Actually I’m trying to find him for somebody else.”

“A drug dealer?”

“Hell no. Why?”

“Because the first couple of years after he split, at least a half-dozen slimeball dope dealers came around looking for him. He owed everybody.”

“Since when do dealers extend credit?”

“Oh, Bobby was slick, I’ll give him that. Kid could schmooze the Statue of Liberty out of her concrete skivvies. So what’s up? You lookin’ to bust his legs?” He sounded hopeful.

“Nah, I don’t do that kind of work. I’m just trying to run him down. A matter of paternity.”

“You’re kidding. He reproduced? How? In a pond with the rest of the scum? I hope you burn him for every dime he’s got.”

“I have to find him first.”

“Can’t help you there, Ax, but I’m holding eighteen hundred bucks of Bobby’s money. If you find him, maybe we can work something out.”

“What money?”

“Royalty checks. I packaged Bobby with a dozen other lousy groups, called it Garbage Band Nobodies, and put it on the Internet for the collector market. It’s been selling pretty well. His career’s doing better since he quit the business.”

“What makes you think he quit?”

“If he was still playing, somebody’s mention the record and three seconds later he’d be on the phone screaming for his cut and then some. He had a nose for a buck, that one.”

“So you’ve got no idea where he is?”

“Not a clue. And no loss.”

“What about his pal, Beans? Remember him?”

“Yeah, heavyset guy? Beans Marino?”

“Was that his name? Marino?”

“Yeah. He was Bobby’s road manager, so he signed off on the equipment rentals for the studio. Not a bad guy. In fact, I tried to hire him, but he and Bobby went way back. Boyhood pals or something. Can’t remember his first name but it was something like Beans. Dean or Gene or something.”

Not Dean or Gene. After leaving Rollie’s studio, I went back to my apartment office, fired up my computer, ran a couple of name searches, and scored. Benno Marino, Mr. and Mrs., lived upstate in the boonies, in northern Oakland County near the Mount Holly ski resort.

I called, got a lady with a delicious southern accent, told her I needed to talk to Benno about the royalties Rollie owed Bobby, and made an appointment for that evening.

Driving upstate is always a mindbender. Detroit’s a sprawling rustbelt relic frantically reinventing itself. Casinos a-building, warehouses imploding, housing exploding everywhere.

But drive forty minutes north of the city and you’re in Hicksville, U.S.A. — heavily wooded hills where transplants from Tupelo and Texarkana build replicas of the backcountry shacks where they were fetched up. Plus a few amenities like hot tubs, central air, and satellite TV.

The Marino place was a mountain ranch house sided in rough cedar. Perched on a bluff with a view of gently rolling hills to the south, it had an odd look as I approached. I didn’t realize what was out of place until I pulled into the driveway. Instead of steps, a ramp led up to the broad front porch and another around to the side door. Wheelchair ramps.

The woman who answered the door resolved the riddle. She was in a power wheelchair, though she looked healthy enough to get up and run a ten-minute mile: chubby, rosy cheeks, dark hair trimmed in a pageboy bob.

“Mrs. Marino? My name’s Axton. I called.”

“I’m Jeanie. Ben’s not home yet, but come in. Sorry about the ramps; a drunk driver dipped me seven years ago. This way.” She backed away from the door and I followed her into a brightly tiled country kitchen, copper pots, a brick island in the center, everything waist high. Wheelchair height.

She offered coffee and I accepted, taking a seat at the long pine kitchen table. She looked at me oddly as she poured.

“I know you, right? Didn’t you manage the Roostertail when we played there?”

“We?”

“I was a backup singer for Bobby Penn. The other backup singer,” she added wryly. “Krystal’s the one people remember — tall, blond, and talented. I was the short, chubby country kid. You called me Alabam, because of my accent. Remember?”

And I did. A bouncing bundle of eager energy with a southern drawl. For an instant I saw her as she was in the old days, so vital... and then I was seeing her now. The woman in a steel chair. And then our eyes met, and I realized with a jolt that she was seeing me exactly the same way.

“My God,” she said wonderingly. “Look at us. Dick Clark hasn’t aged a minute in twenty years and the two of us look like we’ve been chewed up by an alligator and crapped in a ditch.”

She shook her head with an infectious chuckle that swept us both along until we were gasping. Sometimes life kicks you so hard all you can do is laugh. And she had the gift for it.

“Is something funny?”

Lost in the moment, I hadn’t heard him come in. Wouldn’t have recognized him anyway. Beans had lost most of his hair, slimmed down forty pounds, and was wearing a tailored three-piece suit. And toting a briefcase.

“Mr. Marino? My name’s Axton.”

“Right. Jeanie called me at the office, told me you’d be stopping by. Something about royalties?”

“Raleigh Records owes Bobby Penn back royalties, yes. Are you still in touch with him?”

“Slow down a minute. Can I see some ID, please?”

“Sure.” I gave him my wallet and he looked over my license carefully. Jeanie watched, amused. Her normal state, I think.

“So why do you want Bobby? And skip the royalties garbage. Nobody hires private heat to find somebody they owe. Especially not Rollie Newcomb. We may live in the sticks, but we’re not hicks. Either tell it straight or hit the door.”

“Fair enough. Bobby’s onetime squeeze, Krystal, hired me to find him.”

“No kidding? After all this time? Why?”

“I’m afraid that’s between Krystal and Bobby.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway. I haven’t heard from Bobby in years. I’ve no idea where he is, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did. For the record, Bobby and I not only worked together back when, we grew up in the same orphanage in Windsor. We were like blood to each other. What kind of a jam is he in?”

“Why do you think he’s in a jam?”

“That guy was born in trouble. What is it this time?”

“He’s not jammed up, but that’s all I’m free to say.”

“Okay, let’s try another angle. Does Krystal really want to find Bobby? Or is she looking for the kid?”

I leaned forward involuntarily. “Do you know where the child is?” “Nope, but I know what happened to it. It’s the reason Bobby and I broke it off.”

“How do you mean?”

“Bobby was always like a crazy little brother to me. He was a helluva talented singer, but he had a nose for dope along with it. Bailing him out of jackpots was my full-time job when we worked the road together. The Badmen played every hole-in-the-wall joint between Cedar Rapids and Toronto and I saw Bobby pull some crappy stunts, but I always figured, he’s young, he’ll grow up. But with Krystal and the baby he was so far over the line I realized he was never gonna change. A guy who could do that...”

“Do what?”

“He sold the baby,” Marino said evenly. “His own child. Peddled it like a used car.”

“There’s a gray market for babies, especially healthy white kids,” Marino explained. We were sitting at his kitchen table over coffee and sandwiches Jeanie whipped up. I offered to help, but Marino warned me off with a look. She might be in a chair, but she was far from helpless. In fact, I noted a short-barreled shotgun at the end of the counter behind the kitchen door. Jeanie caught me eyeing it.

“Insurance,” she said. “We’re a long way from help out here and one thing you learn on the road is, Lord, there are some strange folks loose in this world. No offense.”

“None taken. I resemble that remark,” I said, and she smiled. I shifted to her husband. “What can you tell me about Bobby selling the kid?”

“The group broke up after Jeanie’s accident. We got married and I started working my way through Oakland U. driving a garbage truck on the night shift. I’m a purchasing exec with the highway department now,” he added ruefully. “Go figure. Anyway, one afternoon Bobby showed up out of nowhere. He was strung out on smack, and he needed my help.”

“To do what?”

“He said he wanted to do the right thing by his kid, give her a chance to be with a good family. Wanted me to go with him. You gotta understand, coming from the background we did, giving up his kid was a pretty heavy step. Still, Krystal dumped her on him, and he was in no shape to cope. He could barely take care of himself. Adoption seemed like the right thing.”

“What happened?”

“We drove into Motown to the Renaissance Center, but instead of an agency, we go to a lawyer’s office. Bobby told me the guy arranges adoptions, but two minutes into the conversation I realize they’re not talking about whether the kid will have a good life. They’re just dickering over the price. I couldn’t believe it. I blew up. Big mistake. Two bruisers came busting in, told me I could leave by the elevator or the window, my choice. We were on the twenty-third floor.”

“So you took the elevator.”

“Out of that building. And out of Bobby’s life.”

“Do you know for a fact that he sold the child?”

“I only saw him once after that, just long enough to tell him to get lost. He didn’t have the kid anymore.”

“Do you remember the lawyer’s name?”

“Zeman. Anthony Zeman.”

He was watching my face for a reaction. “Damn,” I said.

“Mr. Axton, are you expecting company?” Jeanie said, glancing out the kitchen window.

“No, why?”

“A white Cadillac’s coming up our road. We don’t get much company out here. I guess when it rains, it pours.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to your guests,” I said, rising. “Thanks for your help.”

Marino walked me out on the porch just as the Cadillac’s doors opened. And four neatly dressed linebacker types climbed out: Jerry Klein, his pal Jack, and two more just like them. A matched set of muscle.

“Is the child here, Axton?” Klein asked, trotting up the ramp.

“No. These people have nothing to do with it.”

“You’ll excuse me if I don’t take your word for it. We’ll just take a quick look.”

“Whoa,” Marino said, “where do you think you’re going?”

“Inside,” Klein said. “We have reason to believe you may be involved in a kidnapping. Stand aside.”

“The hell I will! Who are you people—?”

Without warning, Klein drove a fist into Marino’s belly, spinning him face-first into the wall, dropping him to his knees. I yanked Klein around but before either of us could swing, a shotgun blast shattered the air, freezing everyone.

Jeanie Marino came humming around the side of the house in her chair, the short double-barreled shotgun cradled in her arms. The shot she’d fired had perforated the Cadillac in a dozen places. For a silent moment the only sound was the Caddy’s rear tire wheezing flat.

“That’s enough,” Jeanie said quietly. “You boys had best git in your car and go. While you can.”

“Lady, you’d better put that gun down—”

“Save your breath. Get moving. Now.”

Klein licked his lips. “You’ve only got one round left in that thing.”

“That’s right. Who wants it? You?” She shifted the weapon to cover Jack. His eyes widened, staring down the double barrels.

“Jesus, lady!”

From his knees, Marino launched himself up at Klein, tackling him waist-high, tumbling him down the ramp into the dirt at Jack’s feet. Without a word, Jack hauled Klein up and thrust him into the Caddy’s passenger seat. The other two piled in as Jack slid behind the wheel, fired up the Caddy, and roared off, thumping down the dirt road on their flattened tire.

“Honey, are you all right?”Jeanie asked.

“Yeah, I think so. What the hell was all that, Axton?”

“Security types. They work for Krystal’s husband. I’m sorry, I had no idea they were coming.”

“Yeah, well, sorry doesn’t quite cover it.” Marino winced as he massaged his ribs and touched a cut on the corner of his mouth. “We’ve told you what we know, now I want you out of here. We’ve got a new life. We don’t need any crap from the old days.”

“Understood,” I said. “And I really am sorry.”

“Stuff happens,” Jeanie said, humming up to me, offering a firm hand. “Maybe you can come back again sometime. Say in another ten years?” The twinkle in her eyes took the sting from the zinger.

“It’s a date. In another ten years.”

“Do you remember the lawyer’s name?” Marino called after me.

“Yeah. I’m afraid so.”

Afraid was the word. The name Zeman runs through the legends of the Motown mob the way Capone’s does in Chicago. Only there were a lot more Zemans than Capones. Brothers, cousins, uncles. The grandfather was a member of the original Purple Gang, a stone killer who always carried three automatics. Or so they say. His grandsons pack law degrees or MBAs, which makes them a lot more dangerous.

Back in the late thirties, Capone sent two thugs to Detroit to talk to the Purples about an alliance. They disappeared. No warnings, no threats, no horse’s head in a bed. They just vanished. The way Jimmy Hoffa would a few years later.

Damn! Why did I have to think of that story in the elevator heading up to Anthony Zeman’s office?

The offices of Barrett, Arlington, and Zeman occupy most of a floor in the Renaissance Center. Twenty-three stories up. The place was busier than a wacko ward during a full moon, but I had no trouble getting in to see Tony Zeman, Jr. Just by saying I was a licensed investigator who wanted to talk about babies.

Zeman came around the desk carrying a golf club. A squat, powerful man, heavily built. Almond shirt and slacks, dark hair, thinning on top, blue jowls. Fortunately, the club wasn’t for me.

“Do you mind? I’ve got a foursome at one.” He lined up a few balls, squared his stance, and began putting them toward a narrow electronic cup against the wall. It beeped each time he scored. He never missed. “What can I do for you, Mr...?”

“Axton. I’m looking into an... adoption you arranged eight years ago or so.”

Zeman shrugged, loosening up. “We handle some adoptions through this office, but all data concerning them is confidential, as I assume you know. So why are you wasting my time?”

“Because there may be a problem with this one. My clients are wealthy and determined. If you blow me off, they’ll go to the police and they have the political juice to make things messy. No one wants that. Just give me what I need and I go away. No problem.”

He glanced up. Light gray eyes, cold as Rouge River ice. “If I thought you were a real problem you’d be gone already. What do you want? Exactly?”

“The man who arranged the adoption was Bobby Penn. Tall, scruffy blond hair?”

“A singer or something? Claimed he had a few hit records in the seventies?”

“That’s the guy.”

“Then I definitely can’t help you. We didn’t handle that case. I only recall it because Penn brought a buddy who kicked up a fuss. I had them escorted out.”

“The pal says he was thrown out. But Bobby wasn’t.”

Zeman paused in mid stroke, frowning, then followed through. “Actually, he’s right about that. Penn did stay a bit longer to plead his case. But we didn’t do a deal.”

“No?”

“No,” Zeman said, straightening, examining the head of the putter. “Let me enlighten you about the work we do, Mr. Axton. When sufficient capital is involved, and those are the only cases we take, finding eligible children is no problem. Appalachia, Russia, former Iron Curtain countries, it’s a buyer’s market. So to speak. We arrange proper health care, cover hospital expenses, and the mothers have the comfort of knowing their babies will be placed with families who can afford our services. And if those families sometimes offer a... gift to soothe the young mother’s anguish, that’s no concern of ours. Are you with me?”

“So far.”

“Good. Then you must see that the scenario I’ve just outlined has no place in it for your Mr. Penn. He was a junkie, so was the baby for all I knew, and it was seven or eight months old. We only deal in — excuse me, arrange adoptions for — newborns. It simplifies the paperwork.”

“And an eight-month-old could have its name and footprints on file in the hospital where it had been born. Which could present problems if anything derailed later on.”

“Exactly. Which is why I never seriously considered doing a deal with Mr. Penn. The man had trouble tattooed on his forehead. His pal got out of line that day and now you’re here. I don’t like problems, Mr. Axton. But I’m very good at solving them. Are you going to be a problem for me?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope not.”

Sulka tie and his precious Ping putter aside, Anthony Zeman was a thug, the son and grandson of thugs. And he was apparently still in the baby business, tap-dancing through legal loopholes to supply desperate people with the ultimate treasure. For a price. Doubtless using the same rationale his grandpop used to justify running booze across the Rouge from Canada during Prohibition, and numbers, drugs, and hookers since.

Victimless crimes. Unless you somehow get crossways of the Zemans, in which case they’ll make you a victim in a heartbeat. Maybe even a vanishing victim.

I had no doubt Tony Zeman would lie like a pol on election night if it suited his purposes. But that didn’t mean he’d lied to me. He wanted me gone with minimum fuss. If the truth would make me disappear faster than a lie, why not tell it?

And I was fairly sure he had. He was running a lucrative operation, judging from his pricey office and polished golf game. Would he jeopardize it for one junkie’s kid?

Unlikely. Besides, Marino pitched a bitch in Tony’s office. If the deal had closed, Marino could have posed a threat to the Zeman family business. And he probably wouldn’t be breathing.

But he was. I found him at his desk in an open, airy second-floor office of the stale highway department building in Pontiac. He wasn’t pleased to see me. I didn’t blame him. His jaw had an angry red souvenir of my last visit.

“I’m sorry to bother you again,” I said hastily, before he could rip into me. “I only need a moment. Zeman didn’t do a deal with Bobby that day, so I’m back to square one. You said you saw Bobby once after the thing with Zeman. Did he say anything about where he was living? What he was doing?”

“We didn’t talk that long. And what makes you think Zeman didn’t buy the kid? Because he said so?”

“I wouldn’t take Zeman’s word that the sun’ll rise tomorrow, but I believe him about this. Bobby didn’t make that deal. Can you think of anything that might help me get a line on him?”

Marino started to shake his head, then hesitated. “That last time, he was with another guy. A biker named Little Vern. One of the Mountain Outlaws.”

“The Outlaws?”

“Yeah, toward the end, our band developed a biker following. They adopted us, like mascots. Which gives you some idea how far down we were. I never ran with those guys, but Bobby did. By their standards, he was a celebrity. So they shared their dope with him, and sometimes women. He and Vern were talking about going on a run that weekend. It was late summer, August, I think. I didn’t care where they were going, I just wanted them gone. And now I want you gone.”

“I understand and—”

“Don’t say thanks, Mr. Axton. Just say goodbye.”

It could have been worse. Bobby could have been running with the Manson family when he disappeared. The Mountain Outlaws, a.k.a. the Mounts, aren’t the wildest dogs in the murky underworld of Motown motorcycle gangs, but they’re close to it.

With over a hundred members, a private clubhouse, and their own bar, they’re well-off by biker standards. But they’re not a collection of misunderstood romantics.

The Mounts take the Outlaw half of their name seriously. They’re major players in the amphetamine trade; they hire out as freelance muscle and drug couriers for the Five Families in Saginaw. The hard-core leaders are all ex-cons, and most of them are speed freaks to boot, the human equivalent of wolverines with hyperaggressive tendencies.

I’d met a few Mounts over the years, mostly when I bounced them out of various nightclubs I’d been running. Couldn’t remember whether I’d made any lasting enemies. Hoped not.

For once, my road-burned face wasn’t a drawback. When I wandered into the Mountain Lounge, the Outlaws’ stomping grounds, I looked like I belonged. Almost.

It was an ordinary neighborhood bar — dim, two pool tables, a few pinball machines, and a jukebox against the wall. Formica tables carved with initials and obscenities.

The odd points were subtle but telling. High, narrow windows offered light but no entry, and the only doors were reinforced steel with hinged cross-braces. One second after they slammed shut, you’d have better luck trying to break in through the wall. And no way out at all.

Early afternoon, the place was nearly deserted. A couple of bikers were shooting pool while a buddy kibitzed. Four more, at a table near the jukebox, were playing euchre.

The bartender was a scrawny burnout, one-forty tops, scruffy brown hair styled with pruning shears, tattooed arms, watery eyes. He looked like a punk any high-school jock could mop the floor with. But if he was tending bar in a place like this...

I ordered a Bud Light. He made no move to get it.

“You’re not from around here.”

“Nope. But my beer is. It’s in the cooler behind you.”

“So it is.” He reached into the cooler, retrieved a can, and slammed it down on the bar with a bang. “Whoa, don’t open that, pal, it’ll spray. Take it with you. Drink it down the road.”

“Can’t do that. Thing is, I’m looking for a guy. Not one of yours. A guy named Penn who used to hang with a Mount called Little Vern.” I didn’t catch the signal but suddenly I had a pool player on each side of me, still holding their cue sticks.

“Can’t help ya,” the bartender said, his eyes locked on mine. “Try the phone book. Might be a Little Vern in there.”

“Or try Forest Lawn,” one of the card players said, standing up, stretching. “That’s where Vern is. Take him a flower. He probably doesn’t get many. You’re Axton, right?”

I turned to face him. He looked vaguely familiar but they all did, like wolves from the same pack. “Do I know you?”

“Not exactly. You threw me out of the Thirteenth Hour Club once.”

“Could be. I worked there. You sore about it?”

He eyed me a moment, his face unreadable. He was taller than the others, pitted face, a leather Harley hat. And I was one second from the emergency ward. Until he smiled, showing broken teeth.

“Hell, you did me a favor, bro. I was ready to beat the bejesus out of a mama who wasn’t worth the jail time. Maybe I owe you one. Why are you lookin’ for Vern?”

“To ask him about a guy he ran with. Bobby Penn? Singer? Had a band called the Badmen?”

“Penn. Yeah, I remember that loser. Goes back a ways.”

“To when?”

“I don’t know. Seven, eight years ago. Vern brought him in, thought he was some kinda hotshot superstar just because he played in a band. Vern wasn’t too bright, which is why he’s dead. Passed on a hill. Met a cattle truck head-on.”

“Sorry to hear it. What about Penn?”

“Last time I saw him he was crawlin’ toward that door.” “Crawling?”

“Maybe Vern thought he was special, but he was just another junkie mooch to the rest of us. He got crossways of somebody, got decked, a few guys did the boogie on his sorry ass. Nothin’ heavy. Like I said, he crawled out.”

“What was the beef about?”

“Who knows? It don’t take much for an outsider to get stomped in here. Probably just pushed his luck.”

I didn’t push mine. Pushed off instead. Headed out into a gray, overcast afternoon. After the dingy twilight of the bar the air seemed especially sweet. Sometimes just being alive is enough.

But the feeling only lasted seven or eight miles, then I realized I had no idea where I was heading.

The road goes on forever, but my hunt for Bobby Penn had zeroed out. The computer search had nothing current, no driver’s license, no Social Security payments or welfare checks, no cars registered in his name. Nothing for the past seven years.

If Penn was a straight john I’d assume he was dead or in a witness protection program. But the music business runs by different rules. Club owners pay under the table to duck taxes, players bunk with pals to avoid having a legal residence, singers change their names for professional reasons. Or no reason at all.

Seven years ago Bobby Penn hit rock bottom. Then what? A name change, a fresh start? Not likely. His name had some market value because his records were still selling a little.

A career change? Also unlikely. All he knew was the music business... and there it was. The answer.

Bobby Penn might be a loser, but he was also a professional musician. Whose records were still selling.

I drove aimlessly for a while, mulling over how that played out. But the bottom line was: I didn’t know quite enough.

I killed an hour by driving into Detroit Metro Airport to ditch my car in long-term parking and rent an anonymous gray Chevy. Then I drove to Pontiac, parked down the street from the state employees’ lot, and waited the half-hour until five.

Ben Marino came out promptly, fired up his van, and pulled out of the lot. I gave him a two-block lead, then followed. In the first quarter mile I knew he wasn’t headed home. He seemed to be trailing a car that had left the lot just ahead of him, a guess he confirmed by turning left on Logan into the upscale Pinewood subdivision. Both cars pulled into the same driveway in front of a gray-brick town house.

I started to turn off, to avoid being spotted, but changed my mind when a miniature dervish came sprinting out of the house to throw herself into Marino’s arms. He was swinging the child around as I cruised past. It had been years since I’d seen Bobby Penn, but I had no doubt the girl was his daughter. I’d always thought Krystal looked like an angel down on her luck. Her daughter looked like the real thing, baby Cupid in blue denim bibs.

I drove on a few blocks, then pulled into a driveway, turned around, and parked in the shadow of a tall hedge. I couldn’t see the house, but I could still see the rear of Marino’s van. Rather than risk a confrontation here, I decided to wait until he left. It wasn’t long.

As I was settling in to wait, a figure suddenly stepped through the hedge, leaned down, and tapped on the passenger window of my rental Chevy. Marino. And he was tapping with the muzzle of a 9mm automatic.

Any thoughts I had of running for it evaporated when I read his eyes. I popped the electric door lock and he slid in beside me, the gun leveled at my midsection.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Where?”

“Out to Twenty-four, then north.” Not to his home then. Bad omen.

“Look, you can’t—”

“Shut up and drive or I'll pop you right here. Your choice.”

I shut up and drove, out of the business district on M-24, then north into the boondocks. The farther we went, the less I liked it, but there was nothing I could do. We were both belted in, and Marino kept the automatic on me. His eyes were somewhere else, though, in some inner place. Deciding what to do with me.

And then he relaxed a little, the decision taken. I tried to read his face with a glance, but it showed me nothing.

The few directions he offered took us farther into the empty countryside through barren fields, already harvested, a few isolated farms so widely scattered that a distant gunshot wouldn’t raise an eyebrow.

The sun was setting when Marino suddenly tensed. “Slow down here, turn right on the next dirt road.”

I did as he said, wheeling down a narrow two-rut lane that circled the base of a lowering mound. The fading light dimmed, then we suddenly plunged into deep shadows as the hilltop blocked the sunset, engulfing us. I reached for the headlight switch but Marino shook his head.

“No lights. Stop here.”

We climbed out of the car beside a tall, chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Marino motioned me ahead, keeping his distance, his gun trained on my spine.

“Hold up right here.”

In the dimness I could make out a gate secured with a padlock. He unlocked it, swung it open just far enough to let us pass, then motioned me through.

There was no place to go but up. As we climbed the hill in the gloom I could make out wider white shapes in the distance. And my heart sank. They vaguely resembled tombstones, but in a way they were even worse.

My calves were aching from the strain of the long climb when the shadows above me began to lighten, then glow, then suddenly we broke into the auburn light on the crest of the hill. The massive grassy hillside sprawled out below us for most of a mile, bathed in the glow of the dying sun, marked at regular intervals by white plastic pipes.

A landfill, a cavernous hole filled with a mountain of garbage, then covered with earth and seeded with grass. In these hills it could almost pass for a natural rise. Except for the PVC pipes that vented the gases generated by the corruption below.

I turned slowly to face Marino. “What now?”

“I don’t know. You’re a pain in the ass, you know that? I asked you to leave us alone. More than once.”

“You also pointed me at two dead-end leads, hoping one or the other would run me off.”

“Too bad it didn’t work. So we’re down to it now. You were dead set on finding Bobby. Here he is.”

“Where?”

“I’d guess seventy, maybe eighty feet down. This wasn’t a hill then, it was still a pit. I worked here in those days and had a key. Still do. It was night and I was pretty wrung out when I brought him here, so I don’t have a real clear recollection of where I put him exactly. I remember carrying him through that gate, though, so we’re close.”

“What happened?”

“What I told you. He stopped by with that guy from the Outlaws. Bobby wanted to leave his dope stash with me so the bikers wouldn’t rip him off. Figured he could mooch off them. And he said we had to come to a permanent arrangement about the kid. I knew he meant money, only I didn’t have any. I was working my way through school, driving a trash truck on the night shift. Jeanie’s legs were still in casts from the accident, but she was dragging herself around to care for the baby.”

“The child was living with you then?”

“She’s been with us since she was a few months old. Krystal took off to work with a gospel show and dumped the kid on her landlady. When the band came back from Canada, Bobby picked Cher up and left her with us. We’re the only parents she’s ever had.”

“You never adopted her?”

“A garbageman with a handicapped wife? We didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of keeping her without Bobby’s consent. I was an orphan myself, I know the drill.”

“And Bobby?”

“He came back a few nights later, roughed up pretty bad. Said some of the Mounts had worked him over. Hadn’t fixed in a couple days, had the shakes really bad. Talking crazy. About how he’d use the money I’d pay him for the kid to get his career going. And if I couldn’t pay him, he’d go back to Zeman, offer him a deal he couldn’t turn down. Like a fire sale or something.”

“What did you do?”

“I looked at him,” he said simply. “Maybe for the first time, I saw what he’d turned into. We grew up together like brothers, but this wasn’t about us, it was about a child, his child. And about Jeanie. She loved that kid more than her life. So I sat at the kitchen table with Bobby and dickered for the kid over a bottle of Cuervo. He was hurtin’ pretty bad, so he killed most of it. And then he needed to fix, so I gave him his stash. He shot up, and I put him to bed on the couch. And, um...”

He looked away and took a deep breath. His eyes were unfocused, seeing something a long way off, a long time ago. And he was trembling. With pain or rage, I couldn’t tell.

“A couple of hours later I heard him groaning. He was sick. Between the booze and the drugs and the beating, he should’ve been in a hospital. But instead of getting help, I... I asked him if he wanted another fix. For the pain. And he said yes.

“I took him his works but he was shaking so bad he couldn’t do it. So I... did it for him. I shot him up. And he knew.

“He watched me load up. He knew what another hit would do on top of the junk he’d already done. And he didn’t care. He looked in my eyes... and then he offered me his arm. He was my brother. And I put him to sleep like a dog.”

He fell silent for a while. The sun dropped lower, pine shadows from the trees at the base of the hill crept up toward us. I didn’t say anything. No point.

“I’ll never get past what I did,” he continued softly. “But I’d gotten to where I could live with it, to make a good life for Jeanie and Cher. Then I saw the news about Krys and her husband losing their kid and you called asking about Bobby. We figured something was up and stashed Cher with my in-laws. Only you wouldn’t let it go. How did you know?”

“In my business, you learn to follow the money.”

“What money?”

“Newcomb’s royalties. Bobby was obviously on the skids, ready to peddle his own blood for a few bucks. But he was also a pro musician. He should have remembered that royalty money and tried for it. Since he didn’t, I guessed he was probably dead. Only there was no record of that, so he didn’t die in bed.

“Either Zeman or the Outlaws could have waxed him, but they talked to me. If they’d taken him out they would have stonewalled or run me off. The last time anybody saw Bobby, he was crawling, banged up pretty badly. I figured he’d go to you. He had nowhere else.”

“And now he’s here. Someplace.”

“And so are we. You figuring to plant me with Bobby?”

He eyed me a moment, then swallowed. “That’s why I brought you here. I almost killed you back in town. Maybe I should have.”

“And now?”

“Hell, this isn’t your mess,” he said, lowering his weapon, “it’s mine.”

“Offhand, I’d say Bobby made most of it. You carried the weight for him his whole life and you still are. You’re even raising his child.”

“Up to now, you mean. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. But I’ve spent as much time on this dump as I care to. Let’s go.”

“No. You go ahead. I think I’ll sit here awhile. I don’t come here often. Maybe I should. I’ve got a cell phone, I can call a friend for a ride. Go on.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Funny, Bobby used to say someday he’d be so famous they’d put him on Mount Rushmore. This is as close as he got.”

“Half a dream’s not bad. Most of us never get that much.”

I left him sitting on the crest of his trash mountain, his arms folded across his knees, staring into the last rays of the sunset. And far beyond it, I suppose.

The walk down the hill was easier than the climb, maybe because I figured to be alive at the bottom. But the drive back to the airport was troublesome.

What I’d told Marino was absolutely true. I had no idea what to do about this. In the end, it came down to the fact that I’d given Krys my word. That covered the situation as far as I was concerned. Somebody else would have to sort it out.

I set up a meeting with Krystal and Evan Grace in his basement office that night. The studio was abuzz when I arrived, twenty minutes to airtime. No problem. However things worked out, this wouldn’t take long.

Evan was in shirtsleeves, sitting behind his desk making last-second corrections on a script. His pompadour was broadcast perfect and a makeup bib was draped over his collar to shield it from smears. Jerry Klein ushered me in, then waited by the door, his eyes locked on me like radar.

Krystal was pacing in front of the desk, elegant in a peasant blouse and slacks. She looked like she hadn’t slept at all, and one more missed meal would bump her from stylishly slender to anorexic.

Judging by her cautious steps, the drink in her hand wasn’t her first. Or her second. Evan ignored me, totally focused on his work. And making a point about our positions. I waited.

“So, Mr. Axton,” he said, glancing up at last. “You asked for this meeting. I assume you have something for us?”

I said yes. Or started to. Instead, I heard myself saying, “I’m afraid there was nothing to find, Reverend Grace. The baby was taken to a law firm that arranges adoptions. Their records are confidential and they have the legal muscle to keep them that way. There’s nothing more I can do. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Evan said, trying to conceal his satisfaction. “We knew it was a faint hope at best. We’ll just have to find the strength to move on. I’m sorry to seem abrupt, but I’m due on the set. Send me your bill, Mr. Axton. I’ll see to it.” He swept out of the room with Klein at his heels.

“You’re going to burn in hell, Axton,” Krystal said quietly.

“Probably,” I said, turning to face her.

“Definitely. Evan’s a minister of the Gospel, and you just looked him straight in the eye and lied your butt off. Didn’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. She knew. I don’t know how, but she did.

“Look, I’m not angry but I want the truth, Ax. And don’t waste any more smoke. You’re not a very good liar.”

“I’ll try to do better. Evan didn’t seem to notice, though.”

“Because you told him what he wanted to hear. What really happened? Did you find Bobby?”

“No. And no one ever will. He’s gone, Krystal.”

“I thought he might be. He was pretty strung out when I saw him last. I expected him to hit me up for money again. When he didn’t...” She shrugged. “It’s too bad. He was a beautiful man once. What happened to him?”

I hesitated. “An overdose.”

“God. What a waste. What a godawful waste. And the baby?”

“She’s fine. She’s happy and healthy and with good people.”

“But you weren’t going to tell me that, were you? You bastard!”

I had no answer for that. She was right.

She took a long pull at her drink, emptying the glass. Then turned to face me. “It’s all right, Ax. I was in so much pain when Joshua died that I needed... something. A miracle, maybe. A reason to live. I thought Cher could give it to me. But thinking about it the past few days, I realized it was all about me, not her. She’s nearly eight, but I didn’t try to find her until I was in trouble. Some people are natural mothers. I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be a friend. Does it?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Then I want to ask a favor. I know I’m a mess. I have been for a while. But I’m going to get some help to dry out and get myself together. If I do, will you fix it so I can meet her?”

“I can’t promise that, Krys.”

“I can’t promise I’ll get straight either. But if I do...?” And for just a moment the alcoholic clotheshorse was gone and I glimpsed the girl I once knew. “How about it, Ax? Deal?”

“Yeah. Deal. We’ll work it out somehow.”

“Good. I’ve got to go; Evan has a fit if I’m not in the audience. So he can keep an eye on me. Thanks, Ax. For being a friend.”

“No charge. Hey, Krys? A minute ago you said you needed a miracle. But in a way you used to be a miracle. When you sang, you touched people. It wasn’t just your voice, it was... hell. I don’t know. But it was a gift. Maybe you shouldn’t waste it.”

“Some gift. Singing was never special to me, Ax. It was just a way to pay the rent.”

“Then it’s an even better miracle. Because it meant a lot to the people who heard you. Especially me. Anyway, think about it, okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that. I’ve gotta go. Take care, Ax.”

I stopped on the lawn for a minute. Didn’t know why. Then I realized I was listening. Like a complete idiot. What did I expect? To hear Krystal cooking up a chorus of “Amazing Grace”?

But there I was. Standing in front of a neon sign: Miracles! Happen! Waiting for one. Stupid, right?

Or maybe not. Granted, most dreams never come through. The hope they offer is all we get. It’s still better than nothing. And now and again, things actually do work out for the best.

A miracle? Dumb luck? Who cares?

Maybe the sign was hokey. That didn’t make it wrong.